


the snow

by aresentfulcaretaker



Category: True Detective
Genre: Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:57:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13248708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aresentfulcaretaker/pseuds/aresentfulcaretaker
Summary: Ray goes for a walk.





	the snow

 Velcoro dips in and out of consciousness. He’s  vaguely  aware of footsteps, of a door shutting. When he wakes in full it's late in the morning and he is alone. There’s a note on his bedside table, gone out – back soon.

He gets up, still bleary eyed, and wanders to the kitchen. It snowed overnight. He stares at the field out back. Leftover flurries are still falling. They lower visibility and keep him from seeing to the end.

Coffee maker sputtering in the background, Velcoro goes to closet in the foyer. It’s full of winter clothing, none of it his own. The house had belonged to a friend of Ani’s father. They’d left it in his care him as some sort of spiritual gesture. Velcoro could live without a lot but if he were in a position to own a house and keep it, he wouldn’t let it go.

Of the men’s coats hanging, he chooses the heaviest. It’s tight in the shoulders and short in the sleeves but he can put something on under it. Two pairs of shoes below are his size; one a set of loafers, the other boots. They’re not made for rain or snow, too thin and flimsy, but he doesn’t have any other options.

Next, he chooses a hat, scarf, and pair of mittens. The coffee’s done, ready for fixing. He dumps in too much creamer and raw sugar, not bothering to mix it before he takes a sip. The roof of his mouth burns and he curses. The cup tips in his hand and spills down his front. More profanity follows.

The shirt goes in the hamper, pants too. He replaces them with a set of white thermal underwear, sweatpants and a beige knit sweater. He finds the thickest pair of socks in his drawer and takes a second pair for good measure.

He duct tapes plastic bags over the socks and slips them into the boots. It’ll keep him dry if not warm. Everything goes on except the gloves, which he slips into the big pocket of the coat. The hat has a pompom on top, he realizes. It looks foolish but he’s only going to be out in an empty field. His hair is longer now, reaching down past to his shoulders. He wonders if Ani would cut it for him.

Haphazardly , he dumps his coffee into a thermos and adds a bit from the pot. There’s half a gas station Kringle leftover from yesterday, cut up in a zip lock. He takes the whole bag, slipping it into his other pocket.

He doesn’t lock the door behind him, only pulls it and lets the screen slam shut. There are voices in the distance and dogs barking. It gives him pause but then he remembers it's Christmas Eve. It’s not unusual for people to gather and visit.

There’s a dip where the yard ends and the field begins. The crop rows are still visible in the broken stalks of corn that remain like half buried skeletons. He’s at their center. Every few steps he works his way over to the right. He crosses over into the neighbors’ yard. An absentee elderly couple, neither Velcoro nor Ani can tell when they’re home and when they’re not, if at all. Velcoro doubts they’ll appear now to tell him off.

At the edge of the field, there is a creek that runs as a divider. Velcoro can see across, through the deadened brush, into another field. The whole landscape is a patchwork of them. A good place for hiding.

Setting down his thermos, he braves the frosty nettles to peek into the creek below. There’s water there, frozen along the edges, stagnant at the center. The sides are too steep for him to get closer. He doesn’t bother trying, backing out into the open. 

Every now and then he looks back over his shoulder. The house gets a little harder to see every time. In front of him and on his sides, there’s nothing to give him reference. A few trees silhouetted on the horizon, car lights blinking along a distant street. He’s alone and he feels it. For once, it’s not uncomfortable but rather settling.

He reaches the end of the field. The dead brush thickens, a few half chopped down trees in the mix. He works his way over to one. There’s a flat stump faced where a rogue branch had tried to split from trunk. The tree bends away from it, weighed down by the arms it’s left with. 

Velcoro plants one foot on the stump. It’s an uncomfortable height, he’s not sure he can raise himself up at this angle. He tries anyway and, without grace, manages to get his other boot up. There’s no handhold within reach, forcing him to teeter with one hand gripping at the cold bark.

His cellphone rings. He jumps and the ill suited soles of his boots slip on the snowy wood beneath him. He rights himself, not falling, and wrestles the phone from his pocket. He answers  just  before it goes to voicemail.

“Ani?”

It could only be her. She’s the only one with this number.

“You’re awake.”

He leans his weight against the tree, wrapping it up in a firm one armed hug. “Have been for a while now. Where are you?”

“Target. Christmas shopping.”

“I haven’t gotten you anything.”

“Who says any of it’s for you?” There’s a heavy sound, a box dropping into a cart.

“Pick something out, charge it. On me.”

“It all comes from the same place, what’s the difference,” she moves away from the phone as she speaks, her voice fading. She says something he can’t hear.

“Sorry, what?”

“I’m going to make one more stop and then I’ll be back. You need anything?”

The snowfall seems to have sped up. Little piles are gathering on the shelves of his boots and shoulders. Flakes catch in the material of his scarf and the short hair of his beard.

“Ray? You still there?”

He snaps out of his trace. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.  Maybe  a pack of undershirts? White or black, doesn’t matter. It’s cold out here, think I’ll start doubling up.”

“Alright,” she sounds curious, almost enough to ask what’s on his mind. She doesn’t. She hangs up. He can picture her, pushing a cart along headed towards the men’s department. Eyeing everyone she passes as if to size them up and decide how big a threat they are. He smiles to himself, looking up.

There’s a fork in the trunk, a place where he could sit. He wants to but he doubt his strength, sees the snow settled there and thinks of how cold and wet it would make his pants. With an odd measure of regret, he lowers himself back down the earth. Sparing one final glance at the perch, he turns around.

He continues along the thicket, ducking branches, climbing over those that have fallen. Daylight dissipates without his notice though it's not even five.

His walk back is clumsy in the evening darkness. His boots catch on those corn stalks hidden beneath the snow. He has to take a detour to retrieve his forgotten thermos. He drinks the cold coffee with the  equally  forgotten Kringle.

Ani is back. He can see lights on that he hadn’t left before leaving. There’s the suggestion of a figure behind the warped glass of the bathroom.  It disappears into the dark hall and – four of his wide, snow-crunching footsteps later – reappears in the kitchen .

He taps his boots on the porch steps and wipes them on the mat. The door is still unlocked though it’s  been closed  further, requiring a firm shoulder thrown. He closes it quick behind him.

Ani’s already changed into sweats and a thick sweater. A pair of thick socks peek out of her fuzzy slippers. She looks  deceptively  soft. But she’s still got her rings on her fingers and that necklace he knows has a working pocketknife as its charm.

She’s looking at him with her eyebrows knit.  Probably  wondering what possessed him to go out in the first place. Like before, she doesn’t ask. Instead she takes a mug from the cabinet behind her – the one he’s been favoring – and asks, “Coffee?”

He tells her yes and starts to shed his layers. Leaving his coat, boots and sweater in a pile, he stumbles - limbs stiff from the cold - down the hall to the bathroom. He showers, the water so hot it burns his skin, makes it itch as the feeling returns. He towels off and hurries to his bedroom, eager to covering himself. All at once, he’s had enough of the cold for one day.

The heat comes on, an artificial breeze blowing out the old vent. It carries with it the scent of coffee. He smiles to himself, feeling content.

His smile widens when he remembers they have cookies and cigarettes.


End file.
